


Hearts and Hauntings

by bandumpster



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Haunted Houses, M/M, harry is literally a ghost, its a little weird at first but I think it'll be okay, louis is a conflicted artist with a ghost in his house, they...fall in love?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandumpster/pseuds/bandumpster
Summary: Buying an allegedly long abandoned house in the countryside to build a home studio far away from nosy journalists and industry people might seem like a good idea. As long as you're ready to share it with whoever lived there before you.Sometimes ghosts are nicer to be around than living people anyway.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Hearts and Hauntings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote on ao3 and this idea kind of came to me out of nowhere! I'm sure someone else has made something similar, but I hope you enjoy :-)
> 
> P.S. this first chapter has been rewritten since I first posted the fic

Aspen Hall. As close to “the middle of nowhere” as a 45 minute drive out of London can bring you, and one of the eerier places I’ve seen.

I turn off the winding country road to a long alley of trees. It’s a narrow, barely one way road that leads to a house that’s worn down to say the absolute least. At first it’s hard to make out the silhouette of it, with the way green ivy covers the whole front and blends in with the unruly garden around it.

Why am I inspecting a long abandoned countryhouse? It’s not that I need somewhere to live, obviously. I still have my place in London as well as one in L.A, but recently, it’s been feeling too… public. After my official “break-up” with Eleanor, leaving my old management and the fairly fresh hiatus of my band, I’ve become far more sensitive to the spotlight in general. Too many people know where to find me at all times, and it’s been that way for a little too long. I need something that’s just my own, somewhere to hide every once in a while and maybe make a solid home studio. I feel no rush to put out an album right away anyway. I need a break. 

It’d be easiest to just pick a normal house and not one that’s been abandoned for years, but who doesn’t need a hobby? Maybe flipping houses is my next one. No one knows about this yet except for my agent, who helped pull some strings to get a hold of the owner of the property and is of course sworn to secrecy. Not his usual job. A little while later I received an email from the owner, and although I was the type of person to only get more curious, he didn’t do a perfect job of selling it in. Apparently he was very happy to “get it off his conscience”, along with a vague warning about the house’s “personality”. Whatever that means.

I have my doubts about it already, judging by the outside. To peek through the high windows I have to forcefully remove vines of ivy, only to catch glimpses of faded, cracking wallpapers and dusty cupboards through the dirty glass. This place is _old_ old.

For a while I’m unsure if I’ll even get in with the way the lock is refusing to budge, but with a bit of willpower and a dash of violence, I manage. The door has swelled in the frame so I have to brace with my foot as I pull, and feel my hope fading a little.  
“Not doing much to impress me so far,” I mumble, dusting myself off and picking at the new splinters in my hands as I step inside.

A dense silence surrounds me after the door has shut. The lights take a good couple of seconds to flicker on. It’s my first impression, as I agreed to inspect it on a whim without any pictures. At first I’m taken with the way the light from outside glows in beams through the air, but I realize it’s dust or humidity, and frown to myself. The floor in the first room is white marble and there’s a broad, curving staircase up to the second floor, which is open from below. In other words, the ceiling is very high. A large chandelier perches itself above the room, somewhat threateningly.

My fingers get thin sheets of dust on them as I brush over the furniture, moving slowly from room to room. I neglect the kitchen for now — I’ll give the rats at least a little few minutes to hide.

The living room has a big fireplace to the left from the entrance, and to my surprise there is a full suite of couches. Chesterfield, if I don’t know any better. The floor bends slightly around it, and I’m guessing it’s stood there for a very, very long time. Why the people who lived here last didn’t take any of it with them will probably remain a mystery. In fact, most of the basic furniture is still there.

At the end of the living room and dining hall is a large, dark door that swings open with minimal effort from my side, making me flinch. For a moment I’m stuck at the threshold, studying the way the room is bathed in light from the tall windows, with nothing but a grand piano in the middle of the room, perfectly presented, and another massive chandelier above. A bit too much light for a piano room in my opinion, but it’s most likely completely out of tune anyway, and I don’t like the way there are cracks in the ceiling around the heavy crown. The brightness of the room makes me realize how dark the rest of the house felt, and despite it all, I feel invited in.

The piano looks expensive. It’s black and has painted illustrations covering the sides, among them a ship and a harp that I brush under my fingertips. Everything in the room is light blue, from the wallpaper to the chessboard-patterned marble floor. I tried to convince myself not to get too attached to the house before, but seeing this now, it’s hard not to. Something about this room is vaguely dream-like, as if time is a little slower, the world not quite there outside. I can’t help myself sitting down at the bench and lifting the fall. I’m not sure I’ve seen actual ivory keys before, but these might be, judging be the color and worn nature of them.  
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I say, resting my hand in an Eb minor with my left hand.

Pressing the keys down, I flinch at the sound and let go instantly. It’s much worse, and much shriller, than I had anticipated. I was in the third octave, and with only one hand, so why is the ring so high and pitchy? Perhaps there’s something off with the hammers, I reason, pushing the Eb key down again. This time I notice it — because there’s a slight delay — the Eb key in the octave above is also being pressed down. That’s what caused the weird sound.  
“What the…” I hear myself mumble, and although an eerie feeling sets in, I manage to think logically. Yes, there must be something wrong with the hammers, or strings, or something.

Leaving the piano room shortly after that, I feel a sense of relief. There is definitely a weird tension in this house. Lives have been lived here, a long time ago, and I can tell. Worn out paths in the wood floors, dark shadows in the paint around doorhandles and the occasional trinket left behind. Candle holders, empty pots for plants, an unplugged landline. But there is a strange charm to it. If I wanted a completely clean slate, I’d look for a newer house. I can’t lie, the idea of discovering more about the people who lived here is beginning to intrigue me more and more. It’s not like I don’t have better things to do; I’m an artist. Albums to write, tours to plan, promotion to be done. But so far I haven’t done much to show for. I’ve been sinking too low in my rut. I can admit that. My lifestyle has been getting strangely predictable. Wake up hungover after noon, drink/take a pick-me-up of some kind, fuck around in the studio, go out with people I don’t really, make a complete fool of myself and then forget about it the next morning just to do it all over again. Like a fucked up merry-go-round, really.

Before the band split up, someone could always tell me what I was supposed to be and do, and although I was never one to listen all that much, a contract’s a contract. Management is management. But my vacation has dragged on for long enough, I need work. Write a full-length album, they say. What the fuck about? Not like I can be honest on it anyway. Not like I know what my honesty would look like. Here, I have a much better chance of figuring it out than cramped up in a studio with all the little gods above at the other side of the glass. But yes, buying an abandoned house to renovate is definitely a strange coping mechanism compared to the ones I’ve tried to far.

It’s worth a shot.

I find myself on my way upstairs, having forgotten that there’s a floor left. It’s sort of a loft, with a fence on the edge and a view into the hallway. The right-hand end of it has a tall, green-tinted window with vines curlings at the outside edges. It gives the whole floor an atmosphere that’s hard to put my finger on. Either comfortingly forest-like, or a bit like the bottom of a murky, woodland lake. The railing wobbles to my soft push. Great. The planks in the hardwood floors seem to have gotten some water damage and bend and break around each other, but I make my way on light feet through the hallway. Three doors, each of them to a horribly colour-themed bedroom with sloping ceilings. How cozy.

First a light pink one, just a migraine waiting to happen for me. It’s mostly vacant apart from an empty bedframe and tall wardrobe.

Then a weirdly monochrome one, the master bedroom, judging by the size of another empty bedframe. The fact that there is so much furniture left does bother me. Someone once slept in here, which is just a disturbing thought, and what the hell am I supposed to do with it all? I notice the air is chillingly humid in there, and the window is overgrown with vines outside, barely letting in any light. There’s a sickly feeling to it in general that I can’t quite explain, like a hospital room without the sterility. So I shut that door pretty quickly.

Finally a green one, with a clear view of the massive, completely overgrown garden. It’s only May, so surely it will only get worse from here, but I still take a moment to admire the view. There seems to be a greenhouse at the end of it, but it’s too overgrown to tell what state it’s in. I’ve never been big on reading or feeling energies or whatever people call it, but compared to the creepy room next doors, this one’s very different. Not cold, lots of light, the air feels fresher than it should. There’s something calming about looking out over abandoned grounds, imagining what it’d be like to have it to myself. A vision drifts into my mind, of children playing in the garden. I realize it’s weird, since I’m not currently planning on having any (especially in this house), but I let the scene play out in my imagination. Somehow, it’s both clear and surreal at the same time. Their laughter, a dog running about barking, perhaps a parent keeping an eye out from a patio. When I catch myself completely zoned out, I try harder to focus. What was that about, anyway?

There’s also a desk in this room, a slightly bigger one, and another empty bedframe along with a cupboard. In my mind I start putting up black padding on the walls. The desk is big enough to harbour a computer and recording gear. I can see myself in here. I don’t have plans on staying overnight in this house anyway, just writing, recording demos and getting away from the worst days. For some reason, I’m also drawn to it personally. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I feel sorry for it. I want to make it nice again, want to keep it company. I have the money and the restlessness for the job, and maybe I can make time.

It seems I can’t stop getting attached to it.

Exiting the final room, I notice the sheet hanging over the wall to my right. There’s something behind it, what looks like a frame. I feel the hair on my arms stand up, not wanting to picture what kind of creepy old painting could hide behind it. Paintings are a no-go, I’m throwing all of them out. Something about old paintings, whether it be landscapes or portraits, always gave me the creeps. Maybe it’s something to do with the uncanny valley, but I just prefer photographs.

The fabric gives off a sigh as I grip it with both hands, erupting in a cloud of dust before it hits the ground. I take a break to cough up my lungs and brush off my clothes, grumbling a few well-chosen words before I take a look at my find. I startle at my own reflection.  
“Huh,” I note, studying the clarity of it with sweeping gazes. A mirror. A big one. From the fence to the wall and a few heads taller than me. The green-tinted window at the opposite end of the hall reflects the dusty air in the room into beams, reminding me distantly of being underwater. The light seems to dance on the walls and on my skin, and for a moment that seems to stretch out, I’m enchanted. Not so much with my own reflection, but the mirror itself. I have a moment of sonder, though there’s no one else there, where I am again reminded of the people who have lived here and looked into this mirror. The thought of them looking back at me hits me, but in the same moment I realize how messed up that is, and take a few steps back without realizing I’d gotten so close.

Although it’s run-down and aging quite poorly, I’m impressed. Aspen Hall has managed to keep my thoughts of media, management and the mess that’s been my life for the last few years to a minimum. And although it would be so easy to pick a house that doesn’t have cracks in the ceilings, I find myself excited to make something of it.

So I decide to keep it after all. What’s the worst that can happen?

* * *

“I’m honestly amazed. I mean, this house hasn’t had a live person in it for at least ten years by the looks of it and it’s got minimal issues apart from some water damage,” the inspector notes, scratching a bushy eyebrow as he reads on his notepad.

In general he looks exactly what I imagined a house inspector would look like; middle-aged, receding hairline, a solid beer-gut and a cockney accent at a comical level. I nod, looking around with a strange sense of pride. Maybe it wasn’t such a whimsical idea after all.

“To tell you the truth, it looks like all parts of the house have been completely soaked at one point or other, but it’s all dried up now,” he says and gestures vaguely with his pen toward some cracked wallpaper. “No mold. “No signs of pests, not even ants. A few spiders but trust me, you want a few spiders. It seems animals are making a point of staying out otherwise.” He pauses to look at me warningly. “But I recommend you get a house inspected _before_ you buy it in the future, Mr. Tomlinson.”  
“Better late than never,” I joke, but it’s hard to determine if the sound he makes is a half-hearted laugh or more of a judgemental huff. Guy takes his job seriously. Maybe one day I will too.  
“If you notice anything, give me a call and we’ll help sort you out with pest control, mold removal, whatever,” he says instead, handing me a card which I study absent-mindedly. _O’Connor and Brown._ Decided to go with a private little firm, more discreet.  
“Ghosts too?” I say without looking up, and he actually does laugh at this, shaking his head.  
“For the right price, I’ll put on the jumpsuit and hoover backpack myself,” he chuckles.  
“Send me the bill,” I grin, and we shake hands before he leaves.

I was definitely joking about that ghosts thing, but to be completely honest, the more time I spend in the house, the more paranoid I get. I don’t believe in ghosts, maybe not an afterlife at all, but I definitely understand what the owner had meant when he wrote about the house’s “personality”. I’ve spent the last week cleaning the entire house and it’s hard to put my finger on what, but there is something about being here. It’s a bit different from the outside world, maybe the light or the silence. The doors seem to vary in how heavy they are to open, floorboards will creak when I’m on a different floor, candles blow out when I leave the room for a moment. The spooky old piano takes the cake though, with the way I’ll sometimes hear soft notes resonating. Not like it’s being played, but as if something bumps into it. No, I actually haven’t played it since that first time. I figure it’s about to fall apart and the strings get stretched when the wood swells. But I can’t help but feel as though the house notices when I’m here.

It’s not first-date conversation material, no.

Either way, now it’s clean. A solid hoovering and dusting off all the surfaces was like magic. I still have to figure out what to do with all the old furniture. I can’t imagine I can lift it all out myself, but at least the little trinkets. Not to mention sort out the garden, which I haven’t even gone into yet. I don’t know when I became a person who cares about gardening, but I’ve been feeling bad for this house ever since I first stepped foot in it. It deserves a second chance. It must have been nice and one point, what says it can’t be again? A good lawnmower might do the trick. Just because some people might look at the garden and think it’s beyond saving, and just because I’m not sure I’m strong enough to fix it, doesn’t mean I can just give up before I’ve tried.

Perhaps I’m projecting a little.

It’s a windy day. The backyard is 2000 square metres of horror movie backdrop. Near-century old trees, aspens of course, that produce a sound very similar to rain on asphalted streets. They surround the entire garden like a wall, and I realize it’s the estate’s namesake as I make my way through the knee-high grass and other various types of shrubbery. I take a little too much notice to the way it’s brushing against my legs. Even outside the house itself, it feels like I’m dreaming. In fact, it’s weirdly similar to a high. Hyperaware and yet somehow kind of far away. The overcast sky looks swollen and weighs heavy on my shoulders and head, and no matter how many steps I take, it’s like I never make my way forwards. No matter how deep I breathe, it’s like I don’t quite get enough oxygen. But then I’m at the end of the garden, by the overgrown greenhouse I can see from the green room’s window. It’s clear glass, shattered in places by a tree that has half-grown, half-fallen through it, and filled to the rim with greenery inside. I spot another structure behind the sea of bushes that surrounds it. A well. Gray brickwork, a little roof above it, all covered in moss. With a bit of struggle I make my way there. My ankle, which is exposed by jeans a little too cropped for backyard adventures, gets a scratch by some thorn or other. I feel the sting, but it’s distant and insignificant.

I can’t remember if I’ve seen a well before in real life, and I’m taken aback by its size. The opening is probably at least a metre and a half wide. With careful footing I get closer, compelled to look down into the depth. A hard wind rustles the aspen trees, throwing off my balance.

For a moment my heart stops as I feel something — something stronger than just a wind — push against my back and I stumble forwards so that my ribs press uncomfortably against the bricks. Of course I flip around, heart suddenly pounding, but there’s nothing. Not a soul in sight.  
“What the fuck?” I hear myself mumble, and my own voice helps me snap back to reality. My dreamstate wears off steadily as the wind dies down. Just the wind. But the urge to peek over the edge into the well is gone, replaced with a stronger one to get out of there.

It’s a creepy old house. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to get a little paranoid from time to time. At least it keeps me on my toes. Yes, that’s it. The house makes me feel a little more alive than I have for the last couple of years. That must be a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is! Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of my first larry fic!
> 
> I know it's a strange concept, but I'm going to try to make it pretty emotional if I can. I'm honestly not sure about all the details of Louis's past and personality yet but I'm sure I'm gonna figure that out, and I'll add tags as I go. And if I know myself, it might be a *bit* of a slow burn, but Harry will appear soon !! 
> 
> I'm pretty excited and hopefully I'll update soon, it's taken me a while to write this first chapter because I kept coming up with things I wanted to change. But now I'm on the right track I hope!
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you like it so far! <3


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